


The Naughty List

by Xerxia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-04-16 11:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: After a lifetime of playing it safe, Katniss Everdeen is challenged to walk on the naughty side...





	1. The Bet

[](https://78.media.tumblr.com/bc676bdd82dfa1ab833855f3485549d3/tumblr_inline_p6drj7W50J1sd8t5x_1280.jpg)

Fur tickles my nose as I slump in my chair and I groan. I love my sister, truly I do. But she has the worst taste. This dress takes the winter wedding theme way too far. Silky fur collars over ballgowns?  It’s like hunting lodge meets haute couture, where nobody wins. **  
**

“That squirrel carcass would bother you less if it wasn’t up around your throat.” My roommate and fellow bridesmaid, Johanna, drops into the chair beside me. The fluffy collar of her ridiculous dress sits decidedly lower than mine, barely skimming her collarbones. But she still looks just as stupid as I do. I don’t tell her that though, because she’s holding two bottles of champagne that she’s managed to pilfer from the bar. And God knows I’m going to need more booze to get through this interminable evening.

“If I pull it down any further I’m going to give the groomsmen an eyeful,” I groan, snatching one of the bottles away and taking a deep swallow. Jo snorts.

“Maybe half an eyeful,” she laughs, glancing at my chest. Even with the ridiculous push up bra I forked over fifty dollars for, I’m not exactly filling out the silver satin.

“Screw you,” I grumble, but with no bite. Jo and I have been friends since college and roommates for almost three years. She’s seen the girls in all of their tiny glory more than I’d like to think about. More than anyone else, probably. Now that’s a sad thought.

“Besides,” she slurs, demonstrating that she’s had far more to drink than just the part-bottle of champagne she’s tonguing like she’s envisioning something else entirely. “There are some maybes in the groomsmen group.” I follow her line of sight to where Vick, my new brother-in-law’s younger brother, is in conversation with my mom.

“Are you nuts, Jo? He’s just a kid!”

“He’s legal.”

“Barely.” I glance at the amber bottle in his hand. I’m pretty sure he’s not even old enough to be drinking that. “What would the two of you even talk about?” She snorts again.

“We won’t be talking, Brainless. He’s plenty old enough for what I’ll be doing to him.” I shudder and take another swig from the bottle. I’ve heard far too many of the things Johanna likes to do through the paper-thin walls of our shared apartment. She looks at me appraisingly. “You never fuck for fun, do you?”

Champagne nearly comes out my nose. “I– damn it, Jo, that’s not funny,” I hiss, looking around to see if anyone has heard. But she’s not smiling, not even a little.

“I’m serious,” she confirms. “When was the last time you did anything for fun?”

“I hung out with Finn and Annie last Thursday. We played board games.”

“Good times, Pollyanna,” she snickers. “But that’s not the kind of fun I mean. When’s the last time you had fun?” She waggles her eyebrows at me and I take another gulp of bubbly.

“I’ve had plenty of lovers,” I sniff. Three, in fact.

“Lovers?” Johanna practically chortles, so loudly that a couple of people look over at us. I try to hide in my fur collar. “Who the hell says lovers?” she gasps in between peals of laughter. “Sounds like something an old, mustachioed Frenchman would say.”

“We’re not all potty mouths like you are,” I grumble. She only laughs harder.

“Potty mouths! Damn, Brainless, you are so pure.”

“Shut up, Johanna.”

“Seriously,” she says, though Johanna is never truly serious, and she’s still snickering. “Have you ever done anything even vaguely wicked?” I shrug, and Jo rolls her eyes. “Even been arrested?”

“No,” I scoff.

“Okay, let’s start smaller. Have you ever shoplifted?”

“How’s that smaller?”

“Right. Gone naked in public?”

“Who does that?”

“Who doesn’t? Come on, Brainless, you’ve never flashed the jugs at a hot stranger?” She glances down again at the slight swell of fur. “Or the ping pong balls in your case.” I reach over and shove her, but with no real malice, and she’s laughing as she wobbles in her chair. Jo is brash and rude and in-your-face, but she’s also loyal and I love her in spite of it all.

There’s a pause where we sip our champagne in peace, watching the drunken guests Macarena on the dance floor and shuddering. “Can you name even five naughty things you’ve done in your life,” Jo finally says and I sigh. I should have known she wasn’t going to drop it that easily.

“I’m chugging champagne out of the bottle right now,” I say. Jo just shakes her head.

My mother wanders over, hopefully to save me from Jo’s torment. “You girls look beautiful,” she says, bending to tuck a long, carefully spiralled lock of my hair behind my ear. There was a time when little caresses like this from my mother were rare. But we’ve healed a lot in the past few years, built a real relationship again.

“Mrs. E,” Johanna slurs. “You’re exactly the right person to ask. This one,” she gestures in my direction with the champagne bottle, foam sloshes down the neck. My mother deftly takes it from Johanna’s hands and takes a large swig from the bottle. Guess that’s not as risqué as I thought. Jo laughs at my mother before continuing. “Has she ever gotten into trouble? Was she a total hellcat in her teens? A hooligan?”

My mother smiles at me, and the fondness in her expression is underpinned by a current of regret, the same one I see every time someone asks her about my childhood or Prim’s. “Katniss has always been the responsible one,” she says, and I squeeze her hand. We’ve worked hard to get past my anger and her guilt about the years I kept our little family afloat, when she’d mentally checked out on me and Prim after my father’s death. But the sadness is something we’ll probably always live with. “That one over there, on the other hand…” My mother trails off, smirking at the dance floor where several guys are holding Rory by the arms and legs, Superman style, while Prim attempts to limbo underneath his body. Good thing she’ll only be wearing that dress once since it’s practically a swiffer right now.

Johanna, for once in her life, accepts the attempt to change the subject, and the three of us chat pleasantly about Prim for a while. But Jo is tenacious. When my mother wanders away to speak with some of Rory’s family, Jo starts up again. “You are the friend that fun forgot. You never even missed curfew, did you?”

Though she knows a little of my past, Johanna doesn’t know just how bad things were when I was young. How I was forced to grow up far too fast, just to keep us all alive. By the time my mother came back to us, I was well beyond the youthful indiscretion age, and focused on college and getting the kind of job that would ensure none of the Everdeen women would ever go hungry again.  

“I never had a curfew, Jo.” Her brows furrow, and I feel compelled to continue. “I never had time to do stupid things. I spent all of my time working, taking care of Prim, the house… ” The champagne is keeping me from sounding too defensive, but sometimes, sometimes, I do feel like I missed out a little. Not on flashing my boobs for Mardi Gras beads, but on being carefree.

Jo nods. “You’re more of a mother to Prim than a big sister.” I shrug; in many ways she’s right. Just one more thing that was stolen from me. My sister. Or at least the sisterly relationship we should have had. But I worked hard to make sure that Prim didn’t lose her childhood. And in a way, I lived vicariously through her. While I stayed in Panem for college, lived at home while working both on my degree, and as an instructor at the rec centre, I made sure that Prim could go away to college. Her weekly Skype sessions were my window into coed life.

Even on her wedding day, I’m still living through her, basking in her joy as she experiences yet another thing I may never have.

“We’re going to change that now,” Jo says, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that you can’t change the past, but she’s got this strange look on her face that makes me a little uneasy. Nothing good ever comes out of an expression like that. “We’re going to have a challenge,” she says, confirming my suspicions. “No, a bet. I bet you can’t do five naughty things before your birthday.”

I snort. “Honestly, Jo, you think I’m some sort of saint. I’m not. I just have no need to be reckless.”

“Chicken?” she taunts, and I roll my eyes. I’m not falling for that.

“Grow up,” I tell her.

“Live a little, Everdeen. You’re only twenty-seven. That’s far too young to be an old fogey.” I shake my head at her, done with this conversation. “Five things, my choice. You complete them all before your birthday, I’ll talk uncle Haymitch into lending me his cabin for your birthday weekend.” That catches my attention. Haymitch is awful, but his cabin is my favourite place on earth, tucked away on the shore of tiny lake Panem with the best fishing I’ve ever seen.

Johanna can smell the changing tide and smirks. “So what’s it gonna be?” Damn her, I am sorely tempted.

“Nothing illegal,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. “And nothing that’ll cost me my job or hurt anyone.”

“Noted.” She reaches out her hand, and I only pause a moment before shaking it. “Five challenges. Two months,” she says. “And to give you more incentive, if you fail, we switch bedrooms.”

I scowl. When we got the apartment together I scored the better of the two bedrooms, and Jo’s been coveting it the entire three years. “Won’t be a problem because I’m not going to fail,” I tell her.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you’re curious, here are Prim’s bridesmaid dresses, courtesy of the google…

[](https://78.media.tumblr.com/bf99e0c0171036055e7165d3f8d5c44a/tumblr_inline_p6dry7EoCs1sd8t5x_1280.png)


	2. Strut

The alarm goes off and I resist the urge to throw it against the wall. I dream of the day I retire; I’m going to celebrate that day by taking a sledgehammer to that cursed shrieking box.

 

Nearly a week has passed since Prim’s wedding weekend, she's safely in Jamaica for her honeymoon, filling her Instagram with pictures of sun-drenched beaches and giant frozen cocktails. All is right in the world.

 

Or not.

 

When I stagger into the hall after showering, there's an addition to the large corkboard I use to organize my life (and Jo’s). Held in place by a small throwing axe is a sheet of notebook paper, on which is written _Challenge One: wear a skirt to work._

 

“Well that's simple enough,” I murmur to myself. This is going to be a piece of cake. Cabin on the lake, here I come.

 

“Nuh-uh,” Jo says behind me, and I jump, whirling around to face her. She's wearing three triangles of fabric that barely cover any of her naughty bits. After three years living together, you'd think I'd be accustomed to her clothing aversion, but no. I flush and avert my eyes. “So pure,” she grouses. “Read the fine print, Brainless.” Sure enough, there's more.

 

“No tights, no panties, and I choose the skirt,” Jo reads aloud, cackling.

 

“It's February,” I protest. “I don't remember signing up for pneumonia!”

 

“You're not going to catch pneumonia. You can borrow my long coat, you'll be fine.”

 

“What on earth is the point of no panties?”

 

“This is a naughty list, not a stuff everyone does all of the time list.” I could argue that I don't wear skirts very often either, but it's too early to waste my breath. “One more thing, Brainless,” she smirks. “You can’t tell a soul about the list.”

 

“Why?” I’m genuinely puzzled, what difference would telling Prim make?

 

“My rules,” Jo laughs. Then she sobers. “I want you to really experience this, Kat. What it’s like to live a little, without a safety net.”

 

“Whatever,” I grumble, pushing past her to my room, closing the door none-too-gently behind me.

 

The skirt Jo’s chosen lays across my pillows, mocking me. It's one of hers, and it's cute, all of Johanna’s clothing is cute. But it's short, at the very edge of _too short for the office_ short. And leather. How can I wear a leather skirt panty-free? My butt is going to stick to it when I sit down!

 

“It's lined, loser,” floats through the door. Figures she'd be listening.

 

“Mind your own beeswax,” I yell, and her laughter retreats down the hall.

 

I can do this. It's just a skirt, and I sit behind a desk most of the day anyway. My job as an editor for Capitol Geographic sometimes involves travel, but far more often it's simply pushing papers across my desk and chasing down freelancers with overdue articles.

 

The no tights thing sucks, but my legs are still reasonably smooth after Prim forced me into a pre-wedding spa day that involved an entire prep team divesting me of nearly every speck of body hair. And the olive tone to my skin means I don’t have winter-pasty ghost legs.

 

This isn’t a skirt I can wear with ballet flats though. I have a pair of reasonably comfortable heels at the back of my closet. Unfortunately, they’re red. But paired with a red silk blouse, I look like a slightly dressier version of myself. Actually, I look like a slightly more professional version of myself too, except for the lack of panties.

 

My shit-disturbing roommate is in the shower when I tuck out of my room. I snap a picture of my reflection in the mirror, flashing her my middle finger, and text it to her as I slip into her coat and out the door.

 

Jo’s skirt is snug, thankfully, so the cold winter wind doesn’t threaten to expose my half-naked state to the world at large. But why didn’t she warn me that walking panty-free was going to feel like this? I’m hyper-acutely aware of my lack of undergarments with every step, the air circulating around my nether regions, the friction of my flesh rubbing together or against my upper thighs when I shift just the right way. I try to adjust my pace; short steps, long steps, wide-legged cowboy steps, but the effect remains. By the time I get to the bus stop, I’m turned on and blushing like a tomato.

 

This, I understand now, is why Jo so often goes commando.

 

Thankfully, sitting is no different in my unfettered state, so when I climb off the bus at the stop in front of my office building, I’m more or less in control of myself again, and I manage to get to my desk without making too much of a fool of myself.

 

I text Johanna right away. < _Why didn’t you tell me this was going to feel so weird?_ >

 

Her reply is so quick I can only guess that she was waiting for me to message her. < _And spoil the fun?_ >

 

< _I hate you_. > I type back, and add an angry face emoji. My phone rings almost immediately.

 

“You love me, Everdeen,” Johanna says before I can even say hello. Her laughter rings down the line, and I groan.

 

“I’m serious, Jo,” I hiss, trying to keep my conversation from attracting too much attention in our mostly open concept office.

 

“And that’s your problem. You’re too serious.” Her laughter stops and she sighs. “No one can tell, Kat,” she says more softly. “It’s a naughty little secret that only you know, a reminder that you’re a beautiful, sensual woman. So own it. Hold your head high and walk proud. Strut, baby!” Then she disconnects the call without letting me reply.

 

Strut indeed. The only strutting I’ll be doing is when I do the shuffle of shame back out to the bus in eight hours time.

 

I manage to stay at my desk for a solid ninety minutes before the need for caffeine bests me. I’m a creature of habit, and I need a cup of tea or things are going to get grumpy really fast. The café all the way down in the concourse is out of the question in this state. Instead, I head for the employee kitchen.

 

With Jo’s advice in mind, I keep my head up and my steps even, even as that squirmy feeling lights my stomach and heats my cheeks. Several people nod and smile at me as I pass their cubes, people who don’t normally give me the time of day unless it’s to dump more work on my desk. But I try to smile back at them, though I’m sure it looks more like a grimace.

 

Alma Coin, the editor-in-chief, is frowning and randomly pushing buttons on the Keurig machine when I walk into the kitchen. Her assistant must be off yet again today. He’s a pretty boy, but useless behind a desk. It’s his prowess on top of a desk that’s the reason she keeps him around. Or so I’ve heard.

 

She glances up at me as I enter, surprise flares in her strange, pale eyes as they rake over my outfit, then land on my flushed cheeks. “Can you help me with this?” she asks, the first six words she’s ever said directly to me, even though I’ve been here three years.

 

“Sure,” I tell her. I don’t bother walking her through the steps to working the machine, eventually Cato or Conan or whatever his name is will be back. Or, more likely, she’ll hire another pretty boy to make her coffee. I plop a pod of butter toffee tsunami blend into the machine, and hum as it spits out her caffeinated sugar water.

 

“Thank you Miss… Everdeen,” she says, the slight lilt at the end of my name the only indication that she’s not one hundred percent sure who I am. Again, I’ve been working here for three years, the last nine months of which I’ve been reporting directly to her. But I plaster on a smile.

 

“You’re welcome Ms. Coin. Anytime.”

 

She smiles at me, a genuine smile I think, or as close as I’ve seen. Then, as she’s heading out of the kitchen with a click-click-click of her grey suede heels, she stops and turns back to me. “Drop by my office this afternoon, Katniss,” she says. “I have a project that I think you might be the perfect editor for.” My eyebrows practically jump off the top of my head. But she merely nods and continues on her way. Huh. Score one for the dressier outfit?

 

The interaction must improve my mood because I don’t realize I’m singing under my breath as I wait for the tea kettle until a crash directly behind me stops the notes in my throat.

 

Whirling, I see him standing stock-still in the doorway, eyes wide and jaw slightly unhinged, a pile of files scattered across the tiles at his feet.

 

Peeta Mellark.

 

He’s a graphic designer, and he’s been working at the magazine for a few months now. We’ve really never spoken, but of course I’ve seen him around. He’s hard to miss, after all. Completely gorgeous, with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and the kind of jaw that makes girls swoon, he attracts a lot of attention. But that’s not really why I’ve noticed him.

 

Peeta is nice, like ridiculously nice. He brings in baked treats for every holiday, major and minor alike. I still dream about the perfect little strawberry tart he left on my desk on Valentine’s day. And his kindness goes beyond plying the staff with carbs. I saw him comforting Annie in the photocopier room after that jerk Crane dressed her down in a staff meeting for something that wasn’t even her fault. I know he drove Marvel home every day last week while his car was in the shop. And he’s not even doing those things to suck up or get ahead. He’s just a genuinely kind person.

 

Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. So I’ve kept track of the boy with the bread and pastries. Watched him help our coworkers without ever once asking for anything in return. Watched him smile at people who don’t deserve it, watched him walk away from the gossips. The only other person I’ve ever countered as unfailing positive as this man is my little sister.

 

That’s why I don’t even think before I’m crossing the kitchen, crouching to help him pick up the scattered papers.

 

After a few beats, he bends down too, reaching for the papers all around us. He clears his throat and I glance up at him. His cheeks are so red it’s like he’s on fire, I can practically see steam coming from his collar, probably from the embarrassment of having dropped what appears to be an enormous portfolio of layout mockups for the summer edition. It’s then that I remember I’m not wearing panties. I don’t think he can see up my skirt, not at this angle, but with a little squeak, I flop down onto my knees anyway, reaching for a document that’s slightly further away as a cover. He glances at me, curiosity lighting his pretty face, but says nothing. We gather his papers in silence.

 

“Thank you,” he says softly as I hand him my stack. His voice is rich and huskier than I remember, and it does strange things to my belly.

 

“Oh, it’s no problem,” I murmur, shifting as I try to figure out an elegant way to get off the floor without flashing him. When he offers me his hand, I take it without even really thinking. It’s huge and so warm, enveloping my hand almost completely. His grip is firm, comforting, as he tugs me to my feet.

 

Up close, his eyes are stunningly blue, almost electric, and the way he fills out his pale blue button down shirt suggests the rest of him is as firm as his grip. I can’t help but stare a little. He smiles. “You, uhm. You look good today, Katniss.”

 

And just like that, the switch on my mood is flipped, back to my irritated default. I scowl at him. As if wearing a skirt changes how I look. A few inches of bare legs changes nothing about who I am or how well I do my job. His eyes widen at my expression. “No, I mean, you’re always beautiful, every day, it’s just you look nice today.”

 

“As opposed to?”

 

“Shit,” he says under his breath, and I swear he gets even redder. “That’s not… I didn’t…” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and I have to bite my lip because his sad puppy look is all kinds of adorable. “The red,” he says, and I glance down at my blouse. I don’t see anything out of place. “You should wear red more often,” he says it softly, I have to lean in a little to hear. “It suits you.” And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.

 

“Thanks?” I say, flustered. I’m not good at compliments. Assuming that’s what that was. His expression falls.

 

“I’m, uh,” he says, gesturing helplessly towards the door, the folder in his hand teetering precariously. “I’m just going to go. I’ll see you around, Katniss.”

 

“Bye, Peeta,” I call out, belatedly, and he stops, glancing back over his shoulder with a pleased but perplexed expression before continuing.  


o-o-o

 

I’m almost floating as I leave Coin’s office. Panty-free or not, there’s a definite strut to my step and I’m owning it.

 

Panem Geographic will be producing series of specials about ecotourism. She offered me the first issue, which just so happens to be about the mountains my late father loved so dearly, the ones where he took me as a little girl, taught me to swim and fish and love the land. I couldn’t have ever dreamed of a better project for me, and here it is being given to me on a silver platter.

 

I got over the weirdness of sitting in my boss’s office _sans culotte_ pretty quickly when she was dangling the project of a lifetime in front of me. I’m sure that the change in my wardrobe had something to do with it. Reminded Coin that I exist, if nothing else.

 

Not that I’m going to tell Jo that.

 

I plop down in my office chair and grab my phone. As much as I don’t want to bother Prim on her honeymoon, I have to at least text her my good news.

 

I’m grinning at my phone when a white take-out cup appears on the desk in front of me, as if summoned by magic. I glance up just as Peeta pulls his hand away from the cup and lifts it to rub the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says.

 

“You didn’t.” I toss my phone onto the desk and raise an eyebrow. The warm, spicy scent of my favourite chai wafts from the cup and my stomach grumbles embarrassingly. Peeta’s soft smile widens, and with a wink he produces a little paper bag and sets it beside the cup. My heart joins my stomach in fluttering. He really is handsome. But I have no idea what he and his steaming cup of delight are doing here. “What’s all this?”

 

“A little thank you, for earlier,” he says. “With the papers,” he adds, as if I might have forgotten.

 

“Oh.” I feel a strange pang of something like disappointment. How did I manage to make him think that he owed me anything for simply being a decent human being? “You didn’t need to do that.”

 

He smiles. Peeta is always so free with his smiles. “And, uhm, an apology. For acting like a doofus.”

 

“You’re not a doofus,” I say without even meaning to. I’ve heard some of Peeta’s presentations, at all-staff meetings, He’s thoughtful and articulate. Though he’s working in layout, I could definitely see him as an editor, if it’s what he wants. He laughs again, cheeks pinking slightly.

 

“I always seem to be when I’m around you,” he says. My stomach gurgles again; I skipped lunch, both because I was anxious about meeting with Coin, and because I didn’t want to wander too far in my current state.

 

With a single long finger, Peeta pushes the paper bag just a little closer. “Please,” he says. Inside, I find a cheese and garlic scone, slightly warmed and my eyes roll back in my head. These are my absolute favourite of the many wonderful things the little café downstairs has on offer. “You prefer the savoury ones, right?” he says softly as I slide the buttery bit of heaven out of its paper prison.

 

“Yeah,” I say, distracted, the warm treat’s aroma stealing my courtesy and sense. Beside me, Peeta chuckles, warm and pleased. “I mean, yes, I do,” I say, snapping out of my reverie. “And these are my favourite.” I glance up at him, his genuine smile lighting something in my chest.

 

“Someday you’ll have to try a Mellark’s cheese bun then,” he says. “They’re even better.”

 

“You make cheese buns?”

 

He nods. “My family has a bakery back home. I worked there from the time I could reach the counter until I moved away after college.”

 

“If my family owned a bakery I don’t think I’d ever leave,” I mumble around a mouthful of buttery, flaky goodness. My mother says that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. It’s a throwback from a time when that was a distinct possibility. Peeta merely smiles.

 

“Well, I’m the third son, so staying there was never in the cards.” He says it simply enough, but there’s something just a little sad in his expression. I can’t help wonder what else is beneath Peeta Mellark’s perpetual sunshine expression, what other worlds are locked away inside him.

 

His must misinterpret my silence as dismissal because his expression falls a little. “Anyway,” he says. “I should go.”

 

“Oh,” I say, strangely disappointed. “Okay.” He turns to leave, but I reach out and grab his wrist before he can go. A little shock of awareness shoots up my arm. I wonder if he feels it too. “Thank you,” I murmur, voice tight and not quite able to meet his eyes. But he smiles.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, and it feels like a promise.

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

o-o-o

 

“And then after Coin gave me the project, that hot guy I told you about from creative services brought me a cheese scone!” I’m two-and-a-half glasses into Jo’s and my Thursday night wine and pizza kitchen date and feeling no pain. “Best day ever.” Jo clinks her glass against mine, lips rosy from the cheap Italian wine and curled up in grin. “Guess I should wear a skirt more often,” I say, slurring a bit on the word skirt. It’s a hard word to spit out with partially numb lips. Jo belches.

 

“It’s not the skirt, moron. It’s the attitude.”

 

I scowl, or try to anyway, though the amused look on Jo’s face suggests I’m not wholly successful. “I don’t have an attitude.” At that, Jo laughs.

 

“Oh you definitely do, Brainless. But that’s not what I mean. You walked in there today and held your head up high and strutted around like you owned the place. You were a total badass. That’s what got you all of the attention.”

 

I shrug. “S’not like I’m gonna go in there without underpants ever again. So the effect’ll be short-lived.” That’s a depressing thought.

 

She grabs my chin. “You’re strong and hot and fierce, no matter what you are - or aren’t - wearing. Don’t let them forget it.” She lets go of my face, blanching a little. “Now if you’ll ‘scuse me, I think I need to pray to the porcelain gods.” She staggers away, but leaves me grinning. As much of a pain in the ass as Jo can be, she really is a great friend. I should go hold her hair back for her. But I think I’ll finish my glass of wine first.


	3. Flirt

 

“I swear she scores every time we go out together,” I grumble into my beer as a tall, rangy hipster drags Delly out of her seat and towards the dance floor. She tosses her hair in a perfect movie-scene version of coquettish, her musical giggle tinkling above the wretched tribute band playing up on stage. We haven’t even been here an hour and already she’s wrapped up in some cute guy.

 

“That’s ‘cause she does,” Jo laughs.

 

“She's got some sort of magic man-attraction mojo going on.” I can’t help watching them sway on the dance floor, completely in sync with each other even while being utterly out of sync with the music. When I turn away, Jo is frowning at me. “What?”

 

“There’s no magic,” Jo says. I roll my eyes.

 

“You know what I mean.” Jo shakes her head, brows drawn. “She doesn't have to do anything and guys just flock to her.”

 

“She was flirting that one up right from the minute we walked in,” Jo drawls.

 

“What are you even talking about?” We’d walked in, ordered our first round, made a decent dent in the pitchers. A couple of guys had wandered by to talk to Delly, then ten minutes later she was heading to the dance floor with the guy who is now running his hands all over her butt. Eesh, they should really get a room.

 

“Jesus, Brainless,” Jo says, eyes wide. “You didn’t even notice Red trying to pick you up, did you?” Red what? She must mean the other guy who’d been looking at Delly but who’d lost out to his friend. Jo laughs. “I thought you weren’t interested and that’s why you gave him the _fuck you_ vibe, but damn, you didn’t even _notice_ him trying to chat you up.” I’m fairly sure he wasn’t, not that it would have mattered. Jo sips her drink, fingers tapping on the table as she stares at me. “Do you even know how to flirt?”

 

I shrug. “Sure, I guess. But I’ve never dated anyone I wasn’t friends with first. I’ve never really needed to flirt.” The very word tastes bad, and I’m super uncomfortable with where this conversation is going. Jo really doesn’t comment on my dating life - or lack thereof - unless she’s been drinking. Then, she can be royal pain.

 

We drink in silence a while, listening to the bar band butcher Led Zeppelin, but when a slow smile spreads across Jo’s face I know I’m in trouble. “Yeah,” she says, as if we’ve been discussing it all along. “That’s perfect. Number two on the list, Brainless. _Flirt with a stranger_.”

 

She hasn’t mentioned the list even once in the two weeks since she made me go to the office without underwear. I knew it was just a matter of time before she brought it up again. “Pfft,” I say. “How is that a challenge?” It totally is, for me anyway, but it’s also something I don’t want to do, so maybe if I downplay it she’ll change her mind. “And this is girls’ night, I’m not ditching you for some guy. Hoes before bros, right?” Jo shoots a pointed look over at Del.

 

“You’re just using me as an excuse to chicken out,” she says. I kind of hate how easily she reads me. “Look.” I follow Jo's gaze to the bar, where a guy in snug jeans has his back to us, broad shoulders bowed over the bar. “That one is exactly your type,” she says. “Blond hair and a nice ass.” She’s not wrong, though I’m surprised she knows my type. Neither of the guys I’ve dated since I’ve known her were blond. “Go on over and flirt him up.”

 

“No,” I squeal, sounding horrified even to my own ears. “I’m not looking for a man.”

 

Jo snorts, beer misting across the table. “I’m not suggesting you marry the owner of that fine ass,” she snickers. “Just flirt a little, get a free drink out of it.”

 

I huff. “I’m a modern woman, I can buy my own drinks.”

 

“Perfect,” she says. “Go buy Blondie a drink.”

 

“Fine,” I mutter. “I will.” How hard can it be? Say hello, buy the guy a drink, and I’m that much closer to the cabin.

 

I practically stomp my way to the bar, heavy black boots clomping on the hardwood flooring, scattering the ubiquitous peanut shells. Delly had tried to convince me to wear a skirt out tonight, but it’s March and I wanted to be comfortable. Jo strong armed me into a cute pair of skintight jeans and a bit of mascara, but my Docs were non-negotiable.

 

I have a few seconds to appreciate just how nice the guy’s butt is, to admire the half sleeve of tattoos peeking out from his tight black tee before I’m tapping his shoulder, a startling wall of muscle under my hand. I plaster a fake smile on my face; it falls when he turns his head to look at me.

 

Peeta Mellark.

 

I hadn’t recognized him from behind, and since I’ve only ever seen him in the suit slacks and button downs he wears in the office I guess I never imagined he might wear something like this away from work. His eyes light up in recognition, a smile spreading across his face as he turns to face me fully.

 

Holy guacamole, I can see every muscle in his torso through his tight shirt, some obscure 80s band logo giving me a reason to stare at the outline of a pair of mighty fine looking pecs. How did I not know that sweet Peeta Mellark was hiding all this under his conservative dress shirts? He’s like superman!

 

“Katniss,” he says, his voice rough and warm over the din of what I think is supposed to be _Whole Lotta Love_ squawking from the stage. I can only gawk. We’ve talked at work almost every day over the past couple of weeks, even taken our coffee breaks together twice (where I learned that he, like me, is a tea drinker, but he never puts sugar in his Earl Grey, whereas I like half a bucket of the sweet stuff in my chai). But I’ve never before seen him outside of the office. “It’s so good to see you,” he says, leaning down just a bit to be heard over the music.

 

“Mmmm,” I mumble. He even smells good, something spicy and masculine. I just stare at him, mouth slightly open, in real danger of drooling on myself. Honestly, it’s not my fault. That body is enough to take any brain offline, I’m convinced. “Are you here alone?” he asks.

 

I shake my head and gesture vaguely over my shoulder. “Friends,” I mumble at his glorious chest.

 

“Ah,” he says, a hint of hesitation in his tone. There are a few beats of silence, punctuated by the caterwauling of a guitar. “Would you like a drink?” It’s just enough to snap me out of my reverie. My eyes reluctantly leave all of that ripped musculature barely concealed by threadbare cotton and focus on his face. I have a mission to accomplish here, flirt with a stranger, buy him a drink.

 

Peeta’s not a stranger, but Jo doesn’t know that. And more importantly, Peeta won’t laugh in my face the way some stranger might. That knowledge makes me relax. “Actually,” I say, finally finding my voice. “I came over to buy you a drink.”

 

A sweet, pleased smile warms his face, and whatever hesitation I had melts away. But now I’m left with a new problem. Peeta Mellark is clearly way cooler than I ever gave him credit for. I have no idea what cool people order in a bar; I’ve been drinking two-for-one pitchers of Pabst. When the bartender wanders over, I’m left babbling “I’ll have what he’s having,” like some kind of cliché and praying it’s not whiskey or something else that tastes like liquid pain.

 

“Do you want to find a table?” Peeta asks once the bartender sets us up with a pair of local microbrews, to my relief, and I nod. He escorts me across the room with a hand on my lower back, gentlemanly but also kind of hot. I catch Jo’s eye and she gives me two thumbs up.

 

“Do you come here often?” Peeta asks once we’re settled into a booth where it’s just a little quieter. I shrug.

 

“Every other month or so.” It’s not far from my apartment and the two-for-one pitchers are a nice draw. “My friends are here nearly every Friday though.” I gesture over to where Jo is holding court at our table with a stunning blonde and a couple of young guys. I wonder which one she’ll bring home tonight. Possibly all three.

 

“Meat market,” he suggests, and I laugh, heat rising in my cheeks.

 

“For Del definitely,” I agree, looking for Delly out on the dance floor but coming up empty. I guess she’s already taken the rangy hipster home. “But that’s not really my scene.”

 

“Mine either,” he says softly. And yet he’s here now, attracting plenty of attention, even tucked away in a booth. He’s definitely turning heads - male and female. With little more than a nod, he has one of the waitresses bringing us over another pair of bottles.

 

“I’ve never seen you here before,” I say to Peeta. I would have noticed him before, even if we hadn’t met. He’s hard to miss.

 

He shakes his head. “First time,” he says. “I’m here with my friend, Thresh. He’s playing bass in the band.”

 

I try, I really try, not to grimace, but the way Peeta laughs I can’t possibly have been successful. “Not a fan?” he teases.

 

“It’s uhm, they have an interesting sound.”

 

Peeta laughs harder. “You’re such a bad liar, Katniss.” He shakes his head. “Never gamble at cards. You’ll lose your last coin,” he says. At my flustered expression, his laughter dies off. “It’s okay. I know they’re terrible. Hell, Thresh knows they’re terrible. But look at him.”

 

I twist to look up at the stage. The bass player - _Thresh_ \- is a huge man, linebacker-sized. He’s totally into whatever song they’re attempting to play, hopping around on the small stage with a wide grin glowing and sweat turning his skin into polished mahogany.

 

Peeta leans closer. “He’s having a blast,” he murmurs in my ear, and I shiver as his breath tickles me. “He’s never going to get a recording contract or sell out a stadium. He plays because he loves it. Fun just for the sake of having fun, you know?” I don’t know, actually. That’s what Jo’s been saying all along, why she’s tormenting me with this list. But I find myself wanting to know. Wanting to experience just a little of that freedom for myself.

 

“Do you like pool?” I ask, and at his nod I stand and reach for his hand. Just like that day a couple of weeks ago when he helped me up off the floor, the feeling of his large, warm hand enveloping mine does strange things to my belly. I gulp down more of my beer to cool my flushed cheeks, then lead him to an empty table.

 

Peeta is a ton of fun, he keeps up playful and light-hearted conversation even as I trounce him repeatedly at pool. When I pull my phone out of my pocket, I’m shocked to see that two and a half hours have passed in what feels like the blink of an eye. There’s a single text message from Jo too. < _See you at home. Or maybe not? Keep it safe, sane and consensual. Call me if u need me_. > “Everything all right?” Peeta asks over my shoulder.

 

“Yeah, my roommate ditched me. But that’s pretty common,” I admit. She’d never leave me someplace where I could be in danger. But I’m just a few blocks from home, and surrounded by people who know me at least a little, and know Jo very well. Doubtless, she checked in with them before taking off. She’s a pain in the bottom, but she looks out for me. I feel a little slice of guilt about not having kept an eye on her tonight. She can take care of herself, but I should have had her back.

 

“Do you need to check up on her?” he asks, as if reading my mind.

 

I shake my head, and can’t help smiling. “Nah, she’s a big girl.” < _Same to you_ > I tap into my phone, then shove it back into my pocket. I wonder if she’s brought someone back to our apartment? Might be a long, loud night. “Another game?”

 

“I think I’ve been humiliated enough,” he says, but his grin takes any sting out of the words. “Will you sit and chat a while longer? I promised Thresh I’d stay until the end of the night.”

 

Not much of a decision, going back to my place and listening to Jo through the walls, or enjoying more conversation with a surprisingly interesting Peeta Mellark, though the background music might give Jo a run for her money. And honestly, even without the motivation of Jo’s extracurriculars, I’d choose to spend just a little more time with Peeta. He has a way of truly listening, focussing, of making me feel like I’m the only person in the room, and I like it.

 

Peeta leads me back to a table pretty much as far from the stage as possible, and orders a pitcher of water. “Unless you’d like another beer?” he says. “Sorry, I shouldn’t assume.”

 

“No,” I assure him. “Water is perfect.” I’m pretty much at my maximum tolerance for alcohol; any more and I’ll either crash the stage for a sing-along, or fall asleep.

 

We fall quiet, but it doesn’t feel awkward. He props his elbows on the table and my eyes are drawn to the ink swirling around his impressive biceps. Without even thinking, I reach out to trace the designs with just the tip of my finger, and Peeta shudders. “Ticklish?”

 

“No, it’s okay,” he says, but the field of goosebumps that erupt under my feather-soft touch tell a different story. I bite my lip to keep from laughing and Peeta groans softly.

 

“I would never have guessed you’d have tattoos.” I can’t stop touching them, they’re so beautiful, and so unexpected. I glance up at his silence and notice that he seems a little unsure, as if he’s worried I’ll judge him for his ink. “I like them,” I tell him, emboldened by the alcohol singing in my veins. “You’re a secret badass.” The curse word tumbles from my lips unfamiliarly, but it makes me feel a little badass myself.

 

Peeta laughs, and I join him. “I guess you don’t have any yourself?” he asks quietly, and I shake my head. I’m not against them or anything. I’ve just never had the inclination.

 

“These are incredible,” I tell him as I continue to map each of the various designs inked on his arm, even pushing the edge of his t-shirt sleeve up. “They look more like fine art than tattoos.” Jo has a few tattoos, so does Rory, but they’re nothing like this.

 

“Thank you,” he rasps, clearly still ticklish. “I designed them.”

 

My mouth drops open. “You tattooed yourself?” I can’t even envision how that would work. But Peeta chuckles, kindly, not like he’s mocking me.

 

“No, I drew the designs and my brother inked most of them for me.” Two Mellarks? Wow. File that one away to think about later.

 

“What do they all mean?” He lets me turn his arm this way and that, and I try hard to concentrate on the ink instead of on the sexy solid muscle that twitches under my exploring hands.

 

There’s the requisite tribal motif that all guys our age seem to have, which he explains he got when he turned eighteen, and a celtic band that’s the first thing his brother inked. Both are far more intricate than any similar tats I’ve seen. On his inner biceps, there is a gorgeous mountainscape with _home_ written in script which, of course, represents his hometown, in the mountains about two hours away.

 

The biggest design by far is a compass rose that cups his shoulder, the needles replaced by a paintbrush and… a whisk? I squint at it, considering. The paintbrush is clearly because Peeta is an artist. But a whisk?

 

Peeta notices where my attention is. “The whisk is for my father. He was a baker.” I remember him mentioning their family bakery, but I catch the sad undertone in his words, his use of past tense.

 

“My dad is gone too,” I admit. “I never thought of memorializing him that way.” I’ve never really memorialized him in any way, simple survival seemed like tribute enough at the time. Now, it makes me a little sad that I don’t have anything to remind me of him. His personal effects are long gone, sold mostly to help feed me and Prim when mom was in the worst of her depression. There are some pictures, but that feels a lot less personal than something you’d carry around on your skin forever.

 

Peeta’s friend, the bassist, comes over before I can fall too far down the hole of regret. I hadn’t even noticed that the music has stopped and the bar crowd has thinned to almost non-existent. “Thresh,” Peeta says, standing. “I’d like you to meet Katniss.”

 

Thresh looks down at me, a spark in his dark eyes, almost like he recognises me which is crazy because he’s definitely not a guy I’d forget. I reach up to shake his hand; instead, he half drags me out of my chair and into his embrace. Okay, apparently he’s a hugger. I try not to flinch too badly. “Stop mauling the poor woman,” Peeta’s bemused voice floats over, and Thresh laughs before setting me back in my chair.

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I enjoyed your show.” There’s a beat of silence before both men burst into laughter.

 

“Oh I like her, Peet,” Thresh says, his smile wide and genuine. He turns back to me. “I’ve been trying to get this one to play too, but he’s too embarrassed to be associated with us.”

 

Peeta splutters some denial, but I’m fixated on Thresh’s words. “Peeta is a musician?”

 

Thresh nods. “Drummer. And a damned fine one.” I sneak another peek at Peeta’s biceps. That explains a lot.

 

“I’m just going to pack up my stuff,” Thresh says, shoving Peeta goodnaturedly before ambling off.

 

“I should get home too.” I can’t remember the last time I stayed out until closing, but I find I'm not even all that tired, a strange energy buzzes through me that has nothing to do with the beers I drank.

 

“Can I walk you?” Peeta asks me shyly. I certainly don’t need a chaperone for only three blocks, but I find I really want to walk with Peeta, to extend our time together just a few more precious minutes.

 

“I’d like that,” I tell him.

 

It’s colder out than I was expecting, and even in my jacket and favourite red hat I’m shivering before we’ve gone twenty yards. Peeta slings an arm around me, drawing me in closer to the warmth of his body. Though he’s only in a leather jacket, he’s as hot as a coal stove. “Is this okay?” he asks.

 

It’s more than okay. It’s perfectly wonderful. I nod.

 

We walk in comfortable silence, the three blocks passing just like the rest of the night has, in a blink. When we reach my building, I stop reluctantly. “This is me.”

 

Peeta shifts to face me, the streetlight painting him in shadows, cloaking him in mystery. “I had a really great time tonight,” he says, and I freeze. That line, in the deep timbre of his voice, feels like the end of a date. Was this a date?

 

“I did too,” I try to tell him, but my voice is little more than a whisper. Am I supposed to invite him up now? My friends pick up guys at the bar all of the time, but I never have, and however cute Peeta is I hadn’t intended on starting with him.

 

“Maybe,” he says, and I hold my breath. “Maybe we could do it again sometime. If you want?”

 

“Hang out at the Trident and listen to Thresh butcher classic music?” Peeta barks out a great gust of laughter, and I relax.

 

“I was thinking something a little less damaging to the eardrums,” he confesses. “Dinner?”

 

“I’d like that,” I tell him, and I really would. Spending time with Peeta tonight, and even at work, has been wonderful. He smiles, and before I even realize what’s happening he’s leaning down and pressing his lips to my cheek, just beside my mouth. A bare whisper of a kiss, gently seductive. A promise of more. But before I can respond or turn my face to catch his lips, he’s pulling back.

 

“Good night, Katniss,” he says, then turns and ambles away, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

 

Johanna is alone in our apartment and still awake, propped up in bed but with her door open just a crack. Once she sees I’m alone, she calls out to me, and I pad into her room, climbing under her duvet to steal her heat.

 

“You didn’t bring Blondie home?” she yawns. I shake my head. “Did you have a good night at least?”

 

“I did. He’s really sweet.”

 

“Did you get his number?” Uh-oh. Confession time.

 

“I, uh. I already had it.” Jo’s sleep-hooded eyes snap open. “It was that guy from creative services I mentioned. Peeta.”

 

“Cheater,” Jo says, scowling but with no malice, and I laugh. She slugs me with her pillow and I just laugh harder.

 

“I swear I didn’t know it was him until I walked up to the bar,” I protest between giggles.

 

“Sure, sure,” she grumbles, then settles back down onto her pillow. “Wait,” she says, eyes widening comically. “Did you say his name is Peeta?” I nod, a little worried that she knows him. “Peeta? What kind of name is that? It sounds like some Bostonian talking about his junk.  _Check out my_   _Peeta!_  Ugh. Is there a less sexy name for a guy? Maybe Horace? Bartholomew?”

 

“Jo!” I’m laughing so hard now that the bed is shaking. “You’re horrible!” We lie in her bed,  laughing together until my stomach hurts.

 

“He walked me home,” I tell her once we’ve calmed, the words falling like dewdrops into the hush. “And he kissed me.” My cheeks are still flushed from that all too brief contact with the sinfully soft lips of Peeta Mellark.

 

“You going to go out with him?”

 

“Yeah, I think so.” I yawn, in the warmth of Jo’s bed the lateness of the hour becomes more evident.

 

“I’m glad,” she says.


End file.
